


Assorted little frilly cakes

by AK29



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK29/pseuds/AK29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A variety of Blackwall romance drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intrusion

She didn’t shriek or yell at him. There wasn’t even a gasp. All she did was pull the blanket over her head and pretend she was never there to begin with. Blackwall had turned on his heel as soon as he’d realized what he’d walked into. 

The first time they’d slept together, he’d thought her silence charming. Ceallach only made a noise when she absolutely could not help it, she told him she didn’t believe in putting on a show so he’d feel better about his skills. He agreed. Heartily. Her quiet just made it all the more worthwhile when he did get something out of her. And it was convenient. Sera might have heard them, certainly. As did the barkeep apparently. But all things considered there was precious little scandal about their relationship. 

Now the silence was rather inconvenient. Had he heard, he would have known to piss off before barging in. Well, he did knock. But he hadn’t given her half a second to answer.

Ceallach was still hiding under her blanket, pretending she didn’t exist while at the same time muttering all kinds of curses and apologies. While Blackwall rubbed the back of his neck, apologized back to her and prayed a hole would open up and swallow him.

"I-… just get out, I’ll put some clothes on and… findthecouragetoeverlookatyouagain… somehow."

She spoke so quickly he had trouble hearing her, but when he did, he felt like an ass. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. By now she should be comfortable enough to laugh about this sort of situation, not feel mortified. 

He sighed. “I could do that… or I could stay and, well, help.”

"Wh… " Apparently she didn’t have the breath to even finish that single word. He heard fabric rustling and turned himself around. She’d pulled the blanket down, but only enough so her eyes poked out, her eyebrows almost touching. It was downright comical.

They stared at each other for what might have been whole minutes.

"… Lock the door."


	2. Support

The part of her body his hand rested most often - contrary to the popular and lewd rumours surrounding both of them - was the small of her back.

That had always been a weak point of hers, one of the places she felt she could break one day, literally break, clean in two. 

She had to keep her back straight at all times, stand at attention. Jump through fire and Fade. She had to be the Inquisitor with the banner in one hand and the sword in another. No room for heart or mind or even person. 

If this was how the leaders of the world felt then she wanted nothing to do with leading or fighting or saving anyone. She wanted to crawl back to Skyhold, destroy her throne and shut herself in her chambers. Dismiss Cullen and tell Cassandra to find a different cause, a different saviour. Try Hawke again?

It was during these moments of selfishness and despair that she left her troops, even when they were celebrating and chanting her name.

It was during these moments that he found her and placed his hand at the small of her back. Reminding her that no matter how much fear and pain there was to face, she would never truly stand alone.


	3. Kisses

Her chest rose and fell in time with her breathing and in tune with the slow movements of his lips on her skin. The beard scratched as much as his rough hands on her sides - neither sensation unpleasant. The pipe in her right hand warmed her, the glove on her left covered her and she let the smoke waft out of her nostrils like it would rise over the head of a sleeping dragon. 

But dragons rarely bared their bellies or left their throats defenseless. That had always been her greatest weakness. Around Blackwall she just felt so bloody safe. From the first moment he caught that arrow she’d felt she could survive anything with him at her back.

And even after everything, she still felt safest right here, at her most defenseless. Spending time with a man who’d been lying to her for months. 

She only opened her eyes when his hands reached her scar, just on her waistline. A large, jagged thing that curled well over her hips, but not all the way around. More brutal a cut than any she’d sustained in combat. So far anyway. 

She could ask him if it bothered him. Where his thoughts went whenever he touched it or saw it.

But he leaned down and resumed the kisses and she decided to ignore the blasted thing. To just enjoy the calming contrast of the rough friction of his beard, the gentle sweep of his hair and the soft touch of his lips.


	4. New Year's Eve

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and her face is flushed a bright red and she’s breathless from all the silly dancing she never even wanted to do.

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and she’s allowed herself a beer or two. Ander beer of course, the only true beer. Everything else is merely pretending to be beer. 

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and she remembers hiding in her room because there was no one near her who loved her enough to make the celebration worth her time.

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and she is surrounded by a group of outcasts and murderers and they’re the only family she’s ever had.

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and her head rests on Blackwall’s shoulder as she drifts in and out of sleep, woken only by the occasional laugh or kiss on her forehead.

It is the year 9: 41 Dragon and they all count down the seconds together.

It is the year 9: 42 Dragon and he kisses her gently, with reverence and admiration in his eyes and warmth in his hands.


	5. Names

What she needed him to know, most of all, was that she’d always loved him. Not “Blackwall”. He’d worn a mask for so long that he was convinced the mask was the only thing she’d ever fallen in love with. That she loved Blackwall and that Thom was nothing to her.

He did not understand that the mask was now his face, that the name was now his title and that he had never fooled her in this.

Blackwall had never made her smile.

Blackwall had never raised his shield to catch the arrow meant for her head.

Blackwall had never reached out his hand and helped her up and asked: “You alright, love?”

Blackwall had never leaned his forehead against hers and asked for forgiveness. 

Blackwall had never made her feel loved.

He had done all these things. If he chose the name Thom Rainier, then it was Thom she loved. Reclaiming the name did not turn him back into the villain. 

When she told him this, he still denied himself.

"It’s not that easy."

She took his hand, broad, calloused and rough into her own and kissed the knuckles.

"Sometimes it is. Sometimes the hardest part is realizing just how easy the answer was all along.”


	6. Breathing

He listened to her breathing.

It was the first time he stayed in her quarters overnight. The first time he’d allowed himself such. It seemed downright heretical to sleep in the same bed as the woman. He had never been less worthy of her. And yet…

He traced the tattoo on her back. The design itself was simple and would have stood out, were the ink not white. Her skin was far from pale but still the pattern seemed almost delicate. Nevermind that it depicted a stylized spine, perfectly following he arch of her own back. 

With his fingertips on the painted vertabrea he wanted to ask her why she got it, where she got it. Was it a whim? She had not chosen to depict any other part of her anatomy. Was there a meaning behind it? She did not seem the morbid sort.

Of course, he had no right to ask these questions. He had abused her trust and while they’d kissed in front of all of Skyhold - finally doing away with all the rumours and the secrecy - there was a lot to be mended yet. To do that, he needed to do better. 

It was painful to realize that even if he’d been able to keep up his disguise as Blackwall forever, their relationship would not have lasted that long. He’d put her on a pedestal. He was no more religious than the next man but he had believed her to be some kind of hero, some kind of untouchable, pure being just so he could justify to himself why he never approached her about his feelings. She’d had her own fancies of course. About him being some form of noble knight.

Not that he could blame her for that. Where she’d told him time and time again that she was no different from anyone else, he’d taken her fantasy and nurtured it. Pretended to be everything she imagined he was because he was afraid if he gave anything less, she would leave. She should have. 

A better woman would have left him in Val Royeaux. A better woman would have executed him herself.

He was almost relieved she was not a better woman. If she was not perfect then maybe, one day, he could actually deserve her. 

Thom sighed, a strange sense of self taking hold in his stomach, tugging at a knot that was not ready to be untangled yet.

He placed a kiss between her shoulder blades.

He listened to her breathing.


End file.
